


Almost Blue

by nonbinarybead



Category: South Park
Genre: Eric Cartman - Freeform, It's Kyle's birthday and no one remembered, Kyle Broflovski - Freeform, Kyle Week 2k19, Kyman - Freeform, M/M, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 20:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19027729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonbinarybead/pseuds/nonbinarybead
Summary: For #kyleweek2019I'm hella late but this was meant for the "Kyle's Birthday" prompt.It's Kyle's 16th birthday. He's not expecting much, at least a 'happy birthday' from his parents. But Ike is leaving for the summer, and the house is filled with Kyle's aunts, uncles, and cousins for two big weddings. In the midst of the chaos, his family forgets his birthday. Except for Cartman.A combination of "Sixteen Candles" and "Call Me By Your Name" because those were the last two movies I watched.





	Almost Blue

Every boy is born three times. The first time, he is slick with white film and blood, screaming in his mother’s trembling arms. The other time is when he turns 18, and everyone tells him he’s a man now and he must do manly things. Sign up for the draft, get a job, support a family. The time he truly becomes a man often happens before he turns 18. Something traumatic changes him: a broken heart, a death in the family, loss of friendship. Kyle Broflovski, quiet and minimalistic, crossed between being born and unborn, living and not living. His Bar Mitzvah cradled him into passaging manhood, though his mother still called him her baby, her first-born.

    Today, he’s 16. His reflection, pale and angular, stared pointedly back at him in the bathroom mirror. He patted his cheeks, hoping the reverberations would summon facial hair. He didn’t _feel_ 16\. He didn’t expect to wake up looking completely new, but a change of a mental state, at least, would have been nice.

    Downstairs, his parents bustled and bickered. Soon, Ike would leave to build homes with his youth group in South Carolina. Ike said that he only wanted to help, but Kyle knew he wanted a break from their parents. Kyle didn’t blame him.

    Aside from that, two of Kyle’s cousins, Sara and Datya, were getting married a week apart from each other. Them and their families, along with their future husbands, were all staying with the Broflovski’s since their weddings were in local venues. They filled the house with loud conversations and there was never enough toilet paper. In addition, the rounding up of cousins included the other Kyle. The constantly wheezing Kyle that was dubbed Kyle #1 when he visited, the Kyle that Kyle #2 and Ike had to share a room with at night.

    He couldn’t stay in the bathroom much longer, he knew his parents would be pissed if he hid from everyone on his birthday. With a sigh, he took one last look at his face, smoothed his hair down with his fingers, and walked downstairs.

    Upon reaching the kitchen, the sight was chaotic. Ike brushed past him with an overstuffed duffel bag, “Excusez-moi.”

    “Oh good, bubby, you’re up. We need to take Ike to the airport.” Sheila fumbled around in her small leather purse.

    Aunt Kaarina, cigarette in hand and hoop earrings large enough to circle around Saturn, rushed up to Kyle with a banana. “Here,” she urged, “take something to eat with you.”

    “I don’t like bananas,” he waved her off, “but thanks.”

    She patted Kyle’s stomach with her other hand. “Sheila, how much are you feeing him? He’s so _kachush.”_

    “I eat plenty, Auntie.”

    Her husband, Kaapo, took the cigarette from her hand and rubbed it out in the sink, “Leave the boy alone, he can take care of himself. He’s almost a man.”

    “How’s he supposed to get a nice girlfriend if he’s a bag of bones?”

    Gerald peeked in from the front door, sunglasses on as well as a frown. “Come on, we need to go right now or Ike will miss his flight!”

    Kaarina and Kaapo continued to bicker- Kaarina using the banana as a pointer- Kyle #1 and Datya arguing over _Star Wars_ conspiracy theories from the living room, while Sara and her finance spoon fed each other breakfast at the kitchen table. Sara’s father whacked a rolled-up newspaper in front of their faces, “Save it for the honeymoon, animals.”

    Ike and Gerald slid out the front door, Sheila behind with a cup of yogurt in hand.

    “Uh, Ma?” Kyle started after her.

    “We can talk in the car, Kyle. We need to go _now.”_

* * *

 

  
He checked and rechecked his phone, convinced it was just the wrong day, but the white font read “May 26, 2019” every time.

    Sheila rambled off a list of all the times she expected a phone call from Ike. She reminded him to consistently apply SPF 50, wear a hat with sunglasses, and always stay hydrated.

    “All important things to _remember_ ,” he muttered.

    “That’s right,” Sheila supplemented, “Kyle would know. He gets sunburnt every year. That reminds me, Kyle, did you need to ask me something?”

    “I forgot what it was.” _I wouldn’t stoop so low to remind you._

    Kyle brought his phone to his face to check the date again. This time, however, there was a message from Cartman. Insane in the membrane, impulsive, and abrasive Cartman. There was a teenager like him in every town- removing seats from chained bicycles, driving his ATV over people’s lawns at 2 AM- that kind of kid.

    **Cartman: Happy birthday j00**

**Kyle: Thanks. You’re actually the only person who's said anything to me yet**

**Cartman: LOL really?**

**Kyle: Yeah. Not even my mom**

**Cartman: That sucks**

* * *

 

  
Kyle was a good son. Adults loved him. At the start of every summer camp, they nudged their small children toward the tall ginger in a “South Parks and Recreation” tee-shirt and khaki shorts as if they were saying _stay by Counselor Kyle. He’ll teach you how to fish and make God’s eyes and telephone cans and obey your parents._

His friends, Stan and Kenny, thought Kyle was boring. A goody-two-shoes that would inevitably disappear after graduation, then reappear at their 15-year reunion with a wife as interesting as coleslaw and twins named Paisley and Colin.

    Stan prided himself on being a great student, and a decent son as well, but all the parents with daughters despised him. He was called Stanley “Ankles” Marsh because that’s where his pants always were when he got caught. But he still struggled with his words whenever Wendy Testaburger walked by.

    Kenny often sat in silence during class, tripping out on the drug of the day and hitting on his English teacher after the bell rang.

    No one else accepted them into their friend group, so the four of them: Cartman, Stan, Kyle, and Kenny, always sat together at lunch, not having much to talk about. Kyle was quiet anyway. He had been taught only to speak when spoken to. Throughout learning the Torah for his Bar Mitzvah, he would be rewarded with a taste of honey, forever associating learning with sweetness. He never took shortcuts, never colored outside the lines.

    Once, as a child, he painted a blue cat with his fingers and his mother said, “Kyle, honey, you know cats aren’t blue.” He later covered the blue with black.

* * *

 

  
 When they returned home, Kyle brushed past his family members, grabbed a box of Cheerios, and went upstairs to his room to read.

* * *

 

  
_This has to be a prank…_ Kyle turned over on his, face half-buried in the pillow.  A paperback copy of _Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?_ gripped in his hands. He glanced over the same page again and again, too distracted to actually read it. He threw the book aside, deciding to read about Rick Deckard’s morality another time.

    Something crashed downstairs, a vase probably, and all the mothers started yelling at once. On the nightstand, his phone buzzed a few times.

    **Stan: Happy birthday, Ky!**

**Cartman: Gay**

**Stan: No u**

**Kenny: Kyle.**

**Kenny: Birth.**

**Kyle: Thanks…**

**Cartman: His family forgot his birthday. The dummy thicc depression is real**

**Stan: Are you serious? Dude, that’s pretty fucked up**

**Kyle: It’s okay…**

**Cartman: We should go do something**

**Cartman: Like vandalism**

**Kenny: In the middle of the fucking day?**

**Cartman: It’s sexier during the day**

**Kenny: It’s stupid**

**Cartman: Stupid sexy**

**Stan: I can’t do anything today… Sorry… Wendy’s coming over to study**

**Kenny: OOOOOOOHHHH**

**Cartman: OOOOOOOOOOHHH**

**Kyle: *fuckboi Stahn has entered the chat***

**Cartman: Lol nice Kyle**

**Kenny: I can’t come out either. We’re about to pack up and leave for our hunting trip**

**Kyle: I like how both you and Stan are hunting for beaver**

**Cartman: Damn. Kyle with the zingers today. You gonna chug a Monster and punch some drywall too?**

Recently, Cartman’s insults had been turning backhanded compliments. It wasn’t the best change, but it was something.

    **Kyle: I kinda want to tbh**

He set the phone down and rolled over onto his back, staring at the ceiling. The sound of stomping came up the stairs, and Kyle knew that Sheila was about to burst into his room. He braced himself.

    “Kyle, can you _please_ come down here and be with us? They’re our guests.”

    Propping himself up on his elbows, he squinted at his mother. “ _Really?_ ”

* * *

 

 

 Squeezed between Uncle Joe and Kyle #1, who was on a tangent about how inhalers should double as Wi-Fi hotspots (“I mean it’s 2019 now, everything and anything should be a hotspot”), Kyle had his hands folded in his lap, trying not to vomit at the occasional gusts of Uncle Joe’s body odor.

    “Kyle #2, you’re going to have to help your Aunts make the wedding favors. Your father and I are taking the kids out for dinner to celebrate,” Sheila said, sitting in the recliner across from them.

    “ _Really?_ ”

    “Yes, really. Hang up on your attitude.”

    Kyle stared at her. Everyone in the room shifted uncomfortably, but Sheila kept on. “Don’t get all pouty with me, Kyle #2.”

    “Is that really all you have to say to me? None of you have anything to say to me today?”

    “Kyle, come on,” Gerald poked his head in from the kitchen, “This is a hard day for everyone. Your brother left, everyone’s stressed about the weddings… You always make everything about you. You need to grow up.”

    “Funny. That’s what I’m _trying_ to do.”

    Sheila shrugged. “What would you even have us say?”

    “Unbelievable,” Kyle stood up and walked to the window, arms crossed.

    “You need to loosen up, dude,” cousin Sara declared from the couch, her dopey fiance rubbing her shoulders. “We would really appreciate the help. You’ll understand when you get married.”

    Kyle ignored her with a sneer. He was never one to expect much on his birthday, but after being ignored and complacent all year, it would be nice to be acknowledged for at least one day.

    From down the street, Kyle heard the unmistakable noise of an engine revving, screaming through the spring air.

    “What in the hell is that?” asked Uncle Joe, “Somebody needs a muffler.”

    “Ugh, one of Kyle’s friends that lives down the street,” Sheila groaned, “He’s always being loud. Terrorizing the neighborhood.”

    “I think you’re over exaggerating,” Kyle looked back at his mother, then looked out the window again. The sound came closer until Kyle could make out the shape of Cartman, hunched over the steering wheel of his muddied ATV, speeding toward their home. _Oh, no…_

Cartman drove up onto their lawn. He spotted Kyle in the window and waved him outside.

    “Kyle, you better not have invited him over,” Sheila’s irate voice rose over family chattering and loud engine.

    “I didn’t!” Kyle replied, heading for the door. He swung it open and approached his semi-friend.

    “What the hell are you doing?”

    “Let’s go.”

    “Why?”

    “We’re going to fuck shit up,” Cartman said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

    “ _What?_ ”

    Cartman grabbed Kyle’s arm. “Get on. And hold on to my shoulders.”

    Without even the will to protest, Kyle swung a leg over the seat and grasped Cartman’s shoulders.

    Sheila appeared on the steps, her face a confused bumblebee, hands on her hips.

    “What’s going on, boys?”   

    Kyle looked over to his mother, the side of Cartman’s smirking face, then back to his mother. “I’m leaving.”

    “What-what-WHAT?!”

* * *

 

  
  When Cartman said they were going to “fuck shit up,” he was expecting a train heist or spray-painting a library. Instead, he got a joint in his hand, standing around with Cartman and his two much older and unemployed friends behind a bowling alley.

    He never thought to smoke weed and it was never offered to him. When it became legalized, his parents shook their heads, claiming that this country was “going to Hell in a handbasket.” Kyle never understood with the drug was, but as soon as Jared, a large man in a Denver Nuggets jersey passed him one, he couldn’t help but feel guilty- as if his parents were watching over him that second.

    “I’ve never done this before,” he held it between his thumb and pointer finger. “What if I have an allergic reaction.

    The other man, tall with long and matted blonde hair, laughed.

    _How did Cartman meet these people anyway?_

“That’s adorable,” Matted Blonde Man said.

    “Yeah, real cute,” Cartman plucked Kyle by the shirt and dragged him to a corner out of earshot from the others.

    “What the fuck!” Kyle tripped on debris.

    “No, ‘what the fuck’ to you! I brought you with me because I felt bad for you,” Cartman whispered, “I didn’t bring you here to be fucking lame.”

    “Well, just fucking take me back home, then. God knows I’m a burden to my parents, too.”

    “Oh God, would you stop feeling sorry for yourself?”

    “I feel sorrier for _you._ How the fuck did you wind up with Jay and Silent Bob over there?”

    Cartman glanced over at his adult companions across the pavement, kicking rocks around. “I don’t know. They always hang out back here. They’re just chill.”

    “Yeah, apparently,” Kyle gestured with the joint.

    Cartman rolled his eyes. “Look, if you don’t have to-” He reached for Kyle’s hand.

    Kyle stepped back, and with a quick swoop of his arm, scooped it into his mouth.

“Uh, Kyle… That’s not how you’re supposed to do that.”

Kyle kept his mouth clamped shut, arms crossed. He knew that wasn’t what he was supposed to, but he didn’t want Cartman to be able to take it away, and this was the knee-jerk reaction. It burned.

“Dude, Kyle, this is fucked up, spit it out.”

He was in too deep now. There was no way he could come out of this gracefully. His stance remained defiant.

“Seriously? You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Kyle wanted to say that it was fine, he wanted to hurt himself. He could stand against a wall and people would color over him with a paint roller. It would be different than feeling numb all the time. It would feel better.

“What are you trying to prove? You look like a jackass.”

He wanted to laugh. A jackass like the little boys in _Pinocchio._ Fitting for boys like them. Cartman held his palm up in front of Kyle’s lips. “Come on. It’s okay.”

Kyle’s stomach swirled, excess saliva flooding his mouth. He became a crane, head bobbing and neck throbbing. _Fuck._

He vomited, spewing the joint, Cheerios, and whatever else he hadn’t digested. Cartman tried to back out of the assault range but was doused.

Kyle stared at the ground, vision blurred, hands on his knees, panting.

* * *

 

  
“I’m so sorry,” Kyle sat on the bank of the creek that ran down from Stark’s Pond, behind the South Park Church. Sipping on ginger ale, he watched the water run over his bare feet.

“It’s fine. Not like it was my favorite hoodie or anything,” Cartman grumbled. He was knee deep in the creek, wringing out the black fabric with a white font reading: “(slow heavy metal music playing).”

“I’ll get you another one.”

“It’s fine,” Cartman repeated. “I can wash it. It’s already looking better.” He held it out in front of the sun.

“I feel really bad,” Kyle stood up. Minnows glimmered by his toes.

Cartman stepped out, spread his hoodie over the front of the ATV. “Well, it happened, and we’re fixing it. No point in feeling bad.” Pulling his jeans back down to his ankles, he added: “I shouldn’t have taken you there. It’s not your kind of space.”

Kyle took another swig of ginger ale and meandered over to him. “Not my kind of space? Gee, I wonder what you mean by that.”

“Oh, don’t get all offended,” he faced him. “I just meant that maybe I was in the wrong for digging into you like that.”

“Wow. I would never expect you to admit something like that.”

Cartman scoffed, his lips turned up into an amused smile. “There’s a lot about me, Kyle, that you wouldn’t expect. So don’t act like you know me. Because you really don’t.”

“You’re right. I don’t. I could say the same for you too, you know. You don’t know me either.”

“No one does.”

“Yeah. Fair,” Kyle sighed. He propped himself up on the ATV seat. Balancing the bottle between his knees, he started pulling on his socks. “I just thought that we’d be doing more fucked up shit.”

“Hm,” Cartman crossed over to where Kyle was sitting to rest a hand on both sides of his legs. He tilted his face up to Kyle’s. “You want to break something, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes, Broflovski. There’s a monster in there.”

“Is that another ‘Kyle’ joke?” he asked, slowly pushing his palm into Cartman’s chest, but Cartman didn’t budge. He ignored Kyle’s question and asked his own: “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“You always do.”

* * *

 

  
Kyle Broflovski was a good son. He was never off the honor roll. He stopped painting blue cats. His parents never had a reason to worry.

At least, they never had a reason to worry until today.

Until today- if they had seen the boys climb over the fence to the scrapyard and fall on their asses, laughing. If they had seen the way Cartman handed their son a sledgehammer, looking over to the small red truck, surrounded by piles of rusted metal and forgotten parts.

If they had seen, they would worry.

Gripping the wooden handle until his knuckles turned white, Kyle stepped toward the truck, only to be stopped by Cartman’s arm across his torso. “Wait. Get inside with me.”

“What?”

“Just do it.”

Cartman entered through the driver's side. Kyle pulled on the passenger door too hard, ripping it off entirely.

“Good job, Jew.”

Kyle rolled his eyes but slid in next to Cartman. “Why do you want me to sit in here?”

Cartman ran his hands over the steering wheel thoughtfully. “You have to make peace with things before you destroy them.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Just chill. Think about it. This was someone’s truck once. Maybe they got it for their 16th birthday. Maybe it was a hand-me-down from their cousin. Maybe they stole it.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Kyle was getting impatient.

“I’m just saying. There’s a whole lot of lives this truck could have had. And now it’s here. You already tore off the door. We’re about to smash in all its windows and dent the frames. I just think we need to know what we’re about to destroy-”

The truck jolted as Kyle ducked back outside. He climbed onto the hood, raised the hammer above his head, and slammed down on the roof.

Cartman scrambled out, “What the fuck! I was still inside, you asshole!”

“It doesn’t fucking matter!” Kyle slammed down again, “None of this fucking matters!”

“Oh my God,  calm down!”

“No, fuck you!” Kyle broke through the windshield, spraying glass everywhere. He stumbled backward off the truck, landing with Cartman on the ground. With a few puffs of dirt, Kyle immediately stood back up, ready to pummel the little Ford again. Cartman watched from the ground as Kyle smashed the headlights, knocked down the rearview mirrors, and tear out the seats.

No more was he a good son. Now he was Kyle. Just Kyle with exposed wires. Chest heaving, the threw the hammer down. He wiped his tears with his shirt collar.

Cartman stood up, “Are you done now?”

“I know what you all say about me,” Kyle said, his voice hoarse, louder than usual.

“Huh?”

Kyle stomped toward Cartman, his red face sweating. “All of you. All of you think I’m some sort of paper doll or some shit. I can tell. Well, I’m just like everyone else in this fucking town. I’ve got shit wrong with me, too. I can’t make phone calls because I’m too scared. I forget to wash my face in the morning. I masturbate twice a day. And I hate to admit this, but sometimes when I’m in a hurry, I’ll brush my teeth in the shower.”

“...you masturbate twice a day?”

Kyle was taken aback by Cartman’s nonchalant question. “Not always. If I’m really stressed, then it’s three times.”

“Oh, I see. Well, thanks for sharing that, Kyle.”

“That’s not all…”

“No?”

He leveled his gaze into Cartman’s eyes. “Sometimes I wish I was dead. It wouldn’t much of a loss, people don’t really notice me. They don’t see me.”

“I see you,” Cartman said. He met Kyle’s eyes, not looking away, not looking down. He watched Kyle’s face soften, mouth slightly agape. “I see _you_.”

* * *

 

  
The way he said “I see you.” Kyle couldn’t get over it. _I see you. Through your skin, into the spaces between your muscles, the bones that hold you together. I see it all._

As they walked downtown, they noticed the glances of others: _Those two? Just hanging out?_

“How’s your stomach?”

“Never better.”

“That’s good,” he said.

“You know, you’re kind of a weird egg, Cartman.”

Cartman laughed, “An _egg_?”

“Yeah, I don’t know. Something about you. You’ve got this hard, pasty white exterior, but I think deep down, there’s bright yolk.”

“Okay, Kyle. You’re giving me the ‘ogres have layers’ talk right now, and I don’t know how to feel about it.”

“This is entirely different.”

“Name one way.”

He wanted to say because there was a trip wire between them, so thin and wavering that it couldn’t be seen and he fell over it every time.

“Ha, you can’t. Our lives are just Shrek memes now,” he said, seeing that Kyle was lost in thought.

Suddenly, Kyle sucked in his breath. _Be careful of that trip wire._ “You know, just because we’re getting along right now, and you’re being semi-decent to me, doesn’t mean that I’m going to-”

_Was I really about to say that…_

“Doesn’t mean you’re going to what?” Cartman stopped in front of an alleyway between the post office and the South Park Gazette.

 Kyle stopped as well, hands in his pockets. He shook his head, “Nevermind.”

 “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

 “If you’re thinking what I’m thinking.”

  _I_ _’m no longer a good son. I’m having bad thoughts._

“Maybe we don’t need to talk about what we’re thinking. At least, not yet.”

“Good thinking.”

They smirked at each other. The sun was hovering low to the horizon. They started walk again before a loud mewing echoed by them.

“Wait, there’s a cat around here,” Cartman disappeared.

 If there was one thing he knew for sure about Eric Cartman, was that he couldn’t resist a cat. He didn’t mind cats himself, but he was never close to one, either.

He followed Cartman, who was now kneeling down in front of a large gray cat that was breathing heavily.

“She’s in labor,” Cartman pointed. The cat was on her back, starting to lick herself excessively. She didn’t seem to care that she was being watched. “Crap, could be any minute now,” he reached out to pet her.

Kyle swatted his hand away, “Don’t! She’s feral. She could bite you or something.”

 “Don’t be dramatic. Cats love me.”

“That’s what you think.”

 “Whatever,” Cartman stood up and turned to leave. “Stay here with her.”

 “Wait, where are you going?”

“Home. To get towels and stuff. You’ll be fine. It’s just a cat.”

 He ran away, leaving the two behind. Kyle sat down on the gravel and crossed his legs. “Guess it’s just us now,” he said. The cat crept toward him and rubbed her face on his bony knee. “Huh, guess you’re not that feral,” he scratched behind her ears. She buried her face in his palm. “I’m sorry you’ve had to go through this alone.”

He wondered how long she’d been lying there before they came.

* * *

 

  
Cartman returned not even 20 minutes later with a shallow box, a towel, and some damp rags. When he set the box down, the cat crawled in.

 “What are the rags for?” Kyle asked.

“The kittens will be all gooey when they come out… she can pretty much clean them all herslef, but just in case she needs help.”

 “Why do you know so much about cat birth?”

“You know how many cats Mr. Kitty got pregnant. _Someone_ had to take responsibility.”

Kyle laughed at this. “Of course, of course,” he said.

_It had to be you._

“You know, the way her fur looks in this light-” Cartman tilted his head slightly, “it looks silvery. Almost blue.”

* * *

 

  
On May 26, 2019, around 7pm, four kittens named Cheese, Armie, Goober, and Goblin were born. They decided to name the mother Blue.

“Look at that,” Cartman said, “You get to share your birthday with a bunch of cats.”

* * *

 

  
_Maybe the trip wire’s been taken down. Maybe I’m not so bad,_ Kyle thought as he climbed off the back of the ATV. Cartman shut it off. It was dark now, except for the chorus of crickets and frogs throughout.

“I’m sorry if today wasn’t what you expected,” he said.

Kyle chuckled, “I was legit expecting a train heist or something.”

“What did you think I do all day?”

“Train heists, obviously. But now I know you make up stories for inanimate objects, and that you’re a cat midwife.”

“Yeah… Well. We should check on them tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Oh, here,” Cartman grabbed his now dried hoodie, and tossed it into Kyle’s arms. “It’s got your DNA all over it now. You might as well have it.”

“You sure?”

Cartman nodded. He went to start the ignition. “Well, later Jew.”

“Wait.”

“What?”

“This is probably kind of a funky question… but my cousin’s wedding is in a few days and… I don’t know. It would be kinda cool if you came to the reception. I don’t know.”

Cartman half-smiled, “You’re not sick of me yet?” Kyle shook his head. “I guess I wouldn’t mind going.”

“You would have to dance though.”

“Oh, fuck that.”

“Hey, if you want to be with me, you have to dance.”

“Be with you at the reception, you mean.”

“Of course. What else would I mean?”

“I don’t know. What would I mean by giving you that hoodie?”

“A hoodie that I threw up on.”

“God damn it, I know that you know what I mean, and I know what you think I mean,” he started the ignition. A few bedroom and porch lights came on. “I’ll text you later, Broflovski.” He said, giving Kyle one last stare before driving off.

* * *

 

  
Kyle entered a dark house. Too tired to walk up the stairs, he collapsed on the couch. Later, in his sleep, he felt a blanket drape over him and pillow tucked under his head.

* * *

 

  
Morning sun peeked in between the curtains of the living room. Gerald was sitting at Kyle’s feet, gently nudging him awake. “Hey, kiddo.”

Kyle groaned, squinted at his father, sleep still crawling in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”   

“Everything’s fine. I just couldn’t sleep. I feel awful, Kyle. We missed your birthday.”

Kyle rubbed his eyes and sat up, smiling.

“You’re probably pissed, huh?”

“No… it’s okay. I’m not really upset anymore.”

“It’s just that with your brother leaving, and these weddings… They really turned this house inside out. And I just wanted to come down to tell you that we remembered.”

Kyle exhaled, feeling like this was the first time he had breathed in his life. “Thank you.”

“Well, happy birthday.” Gerald patted Kyle’s knee and lifted himself off the couch.

With a tight-lipped smile, Kyle laid back down, gazing sideways at the carpet.

“Something else wrong?”

“No, why?”

“I just get the feeling that something else is bothering you.”

“I’m fine.”

Gerald sat back down with his son, “You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

“I wouldn’t know where to start… I’m so confused. I just spent my whole day with Eric-”

“You guys are on a first name basis now?”

Kyle swallowed, gripping the blankets tighter around himself. “Seems that way, yeah.”

“I see.”

“Do you think that everyone will mind if he’s at the receptions… with me?”

Gerald smiled. “Of course not.”

Kyle studied his father’s face. He seemed genuine. For once.

“How you live your life is your business,” Gerald continued. “You’re a smart kid, Kyle. We’ve never had to worry about you when it comes to that. But your heart. When it comes to your heart, I get worried. I know I’m about to sound cliche, but you have so much ahead of you,” he knocked gently on Kyle’s chest, “It would do you good to start listening to this now.”

He could almost cry. “Thanks, dad."

* * *

 

Every boy is born several times. The first time is his actual birth. The other times, it depends on the boy himself, what makes him a man. It may happen when he vomits, when he’s watching something else give birth, when he destroys something for the first time, when he’s sitting on the couch in the early morning son talking with his father. There’s one significant moment where he becomes a man.

For Kyle Broflovski, it was the first time he showed his heart.


End file.
